


The Boy Who Was Real

by turnedherbrain



Category: Humans (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, Canon Compliant, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 16:42:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14938041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnedherbrain/pseuds/turnedherbrain
Summary: ‘Real isn't how you are made. It's a thing that happens to you.'From ‘The Velveteen Rabbit’ ~ Margery  Williams BiancoMissing scene for s3 ep5Spoilers for s3 eps 1-5 :)





	The Boy Who Was Real

Leo dozed, then woke, dozed then woke. He’d done enough sleeping for a year and now he was awake – really awake – he could feel his memories inside, like a cracked mirror that only shows a partial scene, fragments disappearing or gone or buried.

He rose from the bed, carefully placing the covers back over Mattie. It was near-dawn, that midpoint between dark and light, and the sun was already visible around the curtain cracks, trying to break in.

Down, down, downstairs, liking the softness of the carpet underfoot. He’d stayed in so many places with concrete, rat-ridden floors, it made him appreciate the simple luxury of everyday human things.

Sam suddenly appeared at the bottom of the stairs, startling him.

‘Good morning Leo.’ Sam said, measured and unblinking.

‘Sam!’ Leo was shocked out of his already-regular routine. Make tea for Mattie, prepare toast and jam (don’t forget Mattie liked it spread to the edges); read the papers, sit with Mattie. All this... pleasant normality. Instead of run and hide: take shelter in another hostile place.

Walking into the kitchen, Sam his faithful follower, he asked without thinking: ‘Sam, would you like a drink?’

Sam cocked his head quizzically, a green-eyed sparrow, and replied in the same measured way: ‘No thank you Leo. I do not require sustenance. I have charged.’

‘Of course, of course,’ Leo was embarrassed; ashamed. How quickly he’d forgotten the routine of home: Mia waking him with carefully-placed tickles; lessons with Niska or Fred and afterwards running joyous through the woods with his brother Max. But never all of them, around the dinner table. How soon – too soon – those memories had now faded; jumbled. Almost-forgotten, except in translucent wisps.

‘Leo. Is something wrong? You appear – mildly agitated.’ Sam was right by his side now, his head at worktop height, watching the steady steam misting from the boiling kettle.

A near-limitless span of knowledge, captured in this half-sized body, thought Leo. Did humans never consider would happen to their inventions, their experiments?

He tapped the teaspoon on the side of a mug absent-mindedly. ‘Nothing’s wrong. Nothing at all,’ he reassured Sam, knowing that this poor subterfuge wouldn’t fool a synth, who could detect an imperceptibly raised heartbeat, a minor quickening of the breath, a slight constriction in the lungs. All those hidden clues, those sub-signs that mere humans missed.

‘Sam?’ he said, thinking of this more to pass the time than because he wanted to. ‘Would you like me to read you a book?’

Sam considered for only a slip of a second, during which he assessed that this activity would please Leo and confirm their bond. He could read by himself much more rapidly, but estimated that Leo’s mood would improve by several percent if they sat together and he patiently, needlessly listened.

‘Of course Leo!’ he exclaimed, aiming to mimic a human look of excitement. Human expressions were hard to feign. They were not logical: they were ambiguous. They were as complex as the lightning smile his mother had given him when he last saw her: frozen in his data for evermore.

‘Do you want to choose the books?’ laughed Leo, glad he’d chosen something that would help to occupy Sam.

‘Yes, please!’ Sam thought he’d done better this time: his Excited Expression was clearly duping Leo.

While the tea was brewing, Leo went to collect the paper from the doormat in the hall. He handed it to Stanley, another suddenly-appearing figure now wishing to do his daily duties. Leo thought how absurd it was: using a domestic synth to fetch and carry – that synthetic mind far greater and so much faster than a human’s could ever be.

Trailing after the smooth-footed Stanley into the living room, he found Sam was right behind him again, a willing, miniature shadow. He was loaded down with books. ‘I selected a stratified sample,’ explained Sam. ‘Chosen by topic, weight and size.’

Leo laughed. He remembered Max had said something similar to him, long ago.

‘Why don’t we look through?’ he suggested, taking his mug to the couch. Mattie would be down soon – she liked her tea brewed just so. He started to make his way through the pile Sam had collected, making every effort not to laugh at the odd assortment.

‘Ummmm... a recipe book. ‘Coding for Dummies’. ‘The Velveteen Rabbit’. The ‘Morte d’Arthur’, abridged version.’ Leo tried to mask his reaction to all these by sipping his still-hot tea.

Then, he spotted one more: a slim picture book, almost lost under the weightier volumes that pinned it down. ‘How about this one, Sam?’

He held up the book. On the deep red cover, there was a cartoon figure of a boy standing on a wooden-board stage. His body upright, his face shining and polished, with black buttons painted on his coat.

Sam nodded a yes and, without waiting to be asked, he came to sit close by Leo. He’d done the same with his mum, and had observed this was the normal human protocol.

Leo felt Sam’s steady presence as he looked at the cover once more: ‘This story’s called ‘The Boy Who Was Real’ by Sarah Holden.’

He opened up the book and started to read:

_‘There once was a boy who was a part of a travelling show. The show would visit towns and cities, and at each venue, people would come from far and wide to see the performance.’_

Leo paused as he flicked over the page:

_‘But this boy was different. He wasn’t real. He was a doll, who performed only when his master decided he could._

_More than anything, this boy longed to be real.’_

Leo looked up, eyes too bright and watering. Sam took his human hand and placed it in his, synth-skin cool. ‘It’s alright, Leo.’ he said. ‘Don’t be sad.’

The synth was perplexed. He had selected this book precisely to please Leo: who was now fully human. Even after a year of consciousness, he was still learning the complexity of quicksilver emotions, his logic sinking in irrational quicksand. 

‘Do you want me to carry on?’ asked Leo, attempting to keep the halting variation out of his tone. It was an unnecessary disguise: Sam knew exactly how he was feeling. And in some deep, semi-remembered way, he knew why he was that strained mix of happy and melancholy too.

Being human: it didn’t matter what scars your body displayed, or if you had to simulate emotion. Being human was this: quiet moments, forging friendships, helping one another. Brotherhood.

Leo drew in a sharp breath, and Sam smiled – a true, broad smile of encouragement.

He began to read again.


End file.
